Loose Cannons
by npickup
Summary: The Quidditch Cup has been outside Gryffindor hands for eight long years. Muggleborn Matt Sawyer begins his fourth year at Hogwarts and his third year on the team with the pressure for results building... but before the year begins, there is more to his q


The first rays of the watery morning sunshine broke through over the Haldon hills, lending a warm glow to the streets of the quiet Devon village as Matthew Sawyer pushed open the steel gateposts of 11, Horseshoe Close and made his way up the newly-paved driveway, "Alright, Greg?"

"Can't complain, mate. You?"

"Could be worse, just making the most of the summer holidays"

"Yeah, me too. Putting in plenty of football practice over the summer, wanna get into the team at high school"

Greg Bennett turned and hit the battered football that was a constant feature of his life towards the equally well-worn set of wooden goalposts standing by the garden fence, only to see it clear the crossbar by over a metre. "You know, I could've sworn I heard you say football then. Reckon you might be better off in the rugby team..." Matthew laughed as he shoved a copy of the local newspaper, the Express and Echo, through the Bennetts' letterbox.

Greg rolled his eyes, "Shut up, Matt!"

"I'll fetch it, but only 'cos my round goes that way!" The fourteen-year-old pushed his hair out of his eyes as he lobbed the ball backed into the garden, but the attention of his friend, three years his junior, for once wasn't on football. "Greg?"

Matthew's state of confusion didn't last for more than a couple of seconds, as he noticed what had taken the concentration of the other boy. An owl, sandy brown in its plumage and flecked with streaks of a darker, near-mahogany, was making its way unerringly towards number eleven, carrying what looked like a sheet of parchment in its talons. Greg's mouth fell open as he stared, eyes wide and fixed on the bird's unchanging wingbeat. Matthew attempted to feign a look of uncertainty as a wave of realisation hit him squarely between the eyes, the enormity of the moment forcing him into taking a couple of steps backwards. Greg's eyes remained unerringly upon their unexpected visitor as the bird delivered its responsibility through the same letterbox that had taken the local paper seconds before.

"Matt... Did you... did that... just...?"

"Yeah, I did. I'd better come in," Greg remained standing, static, in the centre of the Bennetts' lawn as Matthew pivoted on his outstretched left hand, over the imitation dry-stone walling, and launched himself over the fuchsias and back onto the dry, boot-scarred grass. The look on Greg's face remained in the realms between disbelief, marvel and fear as he tried to relate what his eyes had seen to what his brain told him was possible.

Matthew gave his friend a gentle shove in the back, which seemed to lift his trance-like state as the two boys made their way to the oak-panelled front door of the low-slung detached house where Greg, his mother and his father lived. The older boy pushed the door open and glanced down at the envelope lying on top of the newspaper, tea-stain beige contrasting with the black and white of the newspaper's sports pages. The rich, red seal confirmed Matthew's suspicion as he reached down and picked up the parchment with his right hand, keeping his left around the eleven-year-old's shoulders. "Mr. Bennett? Mrs. Bennett?" A woman's voice called from upstairs.

"Who is this?"

Matthew hesitated, his concern for Greg having pushed the whole concept of forward planning to the side, "Er..." he played for time, trying to formulate an explanation with a shred of believability. "I'm Matt Sawyer, I know your son."

"What's happened to Greg?" the voice from upstairs heightened in pitch and Matthew heard the sound of anguished footsteps as he swore under his breath before the voice echoed out again, louder than ever. "Is my boy alright? Where is he?"

"He's... he's fine, he's here. It's just..."

Greg's mother appeared at the top of the staircase and looked down at the two boys standing by the doorway, her only son's face pale and his eyes withdrawn, the rash of freckles over the bridge of his nose standing out more than ever as a sweat borne out of fear and uncertainty trickled from the fringe of his short, untidy blond hair, and down onto his shirt. "Gregory!"

Mrs. Bennett rushed down the staircase towards the young boy as she swept him up in her arms, dwarfing the eleven-year-old in all imaginable dimensions, Matthew stepping back and staying silent, knowing the bond between mother and son isn't something to interrupt, especially at tender, emotional moments. Greg closed his eyes and pressed his face into his mother's chest, Matthew noticing a steady stream of tears running down his friend's face, and wondered to himself whether Greg was strong enough to take what the next few minutes would give to him. The impasse lasted for nearly two minutes before Mrs Bennett remembered the presence of Matthew. "Did you see...?"

Matthew was grateful for the silence as, despite its awkward nature, he'd had time to think of something approaching a strategy to let the Bennetts know what they needed to know in the least disturbing way possible. He cut off Greg's mother mid-sentence. "Yeah, yes I did. I think you both probably ought to sit down."

Mrs. Bennett nodded gently and, taking her son into her arms, turned her back on Matthew and walked through into the front room of 11, Horseshoe Close. Matthew knelt down and picked up the owl-borne parchment that had played havoc with his morning's paper round, and gave the question burning at the forefront of his mind a final second's worth of thought. Bracing himself, he pushed himself upwards and quietly followed the Bennetts into the front room.

As Matthew sat down on the ageing brown-and-beige armchair which lay opposite a matching three-seat sofa where his friend perched, shielded by his mother and seemingly on edge, half expecting another extraordinary event to question his understanding of life, he remembered back three years to the morning he had received his letter. Having refused to believe the integrity of the sender for several hours – in spite of further bird-based deliveries – it took the apparition of one of the Hogwarts teachers in his bedroom to convince him of the school's existence. Yet Greg was a much different boy, more intense and more easily worried...

"Excuse me?" Mrs. Bennett's voice echoed inside Matthew's mind and he shook himself back into the summer of 2004. "You said that you saw..."

"Here." Matthew placed the envelope in front of Greg on the small glass-topped table that separated the two seats. "This was delivered by owl a moment ago."

"Owl!" His mother's response came in a mixture of disbelief, shock and anger. "Are you trying to tell me that my son is scared out of his mind because an owl has been delivering the mail?"

Matthew knew his responsibility in the situation was to keep his patience, and to help his friend through what was swiftly becoming more of an ordeal than it needed to be. He steadied himself for a brief second, took a deep breath and, forcing his voice to remain calm, said as politely as he could muster, "please read through the letter".

Awkward silence descended upon the house for the third time in as many minutes, as the three of them eyed the envelope, Matthew with hope, Greg with fear and his mother with a growing bewilderment. It was eventually the younger boy who moved forward, hands shaking slightly and tears still lining his eyes, to pick up the envelope. Matthew managed an admittedly weak smile of encouragement, pleased that his friend was still in sufficient control of his emotions to take the initiative.

Slowly sliding the contents of the envelope – several sheets of a parchment identical in colour and texture from their container - out from inside, Greg began to read in an unusually quiet voice that barely registered above the ticking of the carriage clock that sat on the fireplace.

_Dear Mr Bennett,_

_We are delighted to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…_

He broke off, his breathing quickened and his face pale again. "Hog-_what_?"

"Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." Matthew was quietly impressed with the extent of the calmness that he was maintaining given the situation. "It's a boarding school for – erm – people who are capable of performing magic."

Fending off the approach of another bout of silence, Matthew reached into the pocket of his slightly worn blue jeans. "This", he said, aware of the Bennetts' gazes focusing on the object he'd removed from his trousers, "is my wand… eight inches long, willow with powdered dragon claw. I can't show you any spellwork or anything because I'm underage…"

Realising that any further words would only add to the already heightened state of confusion, Matthew ended his sentence abruptly and held the wand out to his friend.

"For real?" Greg extended his left hand to feel the wand, and looked apprehensively into the older boy's eyes for the first time in their conversation.

Matthew took the time to look back at Greg and answered simply, "Yes."

"You're not just taking the – you know?"

Matthew managed half a smile. "No, mate. Swear to it – every word I've said is as true as it can be. I wouldn't do something that's obviously worrying you so much for the hell of it, would I?"

The younger boy smiled back for the first time since he had been playing football minutes ago and continued to read from the letter. Matthew sensed the opportunity to leave for a short space of time as Greg and his mother digested the contents of the letter's revelations. "Can I get you a drink or something?"

Mrs. Bennett understood Matthew's intentions instantly. "I'd love a glass of water… turn left and it's right in front of you as you go out the door – next to the toilet."

As Matthew returned with three glasses of water, he was surprised and relieved to hear Greg speak with a voice that sounded very close to his normal confident tone. "Where can I get all of this stuff? How do I get onto Platform 9¾? How can I send them an owl? What…"

"Slow down, slow down, mate!" Matthew laughed – more out of relief than anything else – "Sounds like you've decided you fancy going then!"

"Yeah… thank you"

"What for?"

"Well…" Greg's voice faltered a little, "if you hadn't been a, you know, then I dunno what would've happened… I guess, I guess…" Greg tailed off as he looked towards the other boy in the hope that Matthew understood the unconvincing attempt at a sentence that he'd just come up with.

"Don't worry about anything, Greg – they'd have made sure you got there in the end. It took them sixteen letters and then Professor Flitwick had to apparate into my bedroom before I was convinced…" Matthew tailed off at his friend's blank look.

"Apparate?"

"Er… forget I said it. You wanna walk before you start running, you know. Tell you what, come round my place this afternoon and I'll show you all my first-year kit. Then I guess we can go to Diagon Alley tomorrow if we need much else."

"Diagon…?"

"Later! I'll ring you… but right now I've got four dozen Express & Echoes that need something doing with them. Just don't tell anyone any of this, there are plenty good reasons that we keep to ourselves. See you later."

"See you, mate." Greg, now with colour firmly returned to his face, closed his front door, picked up the letter once again and hurtled up the staircase. Covering three steps at a time, he bounded through his bedroom door and collapsed onto his bed, reading the parchment through once, twice, three times. "Wow…"

If Matthew had been asked to list the most unlikely things he could think of to interrupt a morning's paper round, "Hogwarts' Business" would certainly have ranked highly, probably just behind crashing his bike into an overturned UFO. One teenage wizard in a tiny Devonian village was one thing – two began to make him wonder. Maybe it wasn't just coincidence that one of Britain and Ireland's twelve professional Quidditch teams had chosen this unlikely spot as its base all those years ago.

It was with quaffles, bludgers and snitches on his mind that he completed his scheduled deliveries and returned to his empty house, only a handful of streets away from Horseshoe Close – where, he thought, Greg was in all likelihood still beside himself with anticipation as to what the next year held in store. After absentmindedly making his way through a decidedly un-magical pair of cheese sandwiches, he picked up the telephone to call his friend. It was answered in less than a ring.

"Matt?"

"Are you sitting on the phone or something!" The older boy laughed at his friend's unabashed enthusiasm, contrasting it to the distraught picture he'd presented hours ago.

Greg made a noise that sounded like a cross between a cough and a groan, which Matthew took to be one of agreement. "Erm… I…"

"So, basically, you have. Don't need any more persuading to come round and have a look at my stuff then, do you?"

"Now?"

"No, next Tuesday. When do you think?"

"See you in a minute."

Matthew heard the sound of the receiver being slammed back onto its hook and rolled his eyes with before saying, aloud but to himself, "Kids… I swear I wasn't this mad…"

He had barely the time to replace his end of the phone line before the impatient hammering came upon the front door. Looking upon his friend, whose hair once again lay in a matted and sweat-filled jumble on top of an eager face which bore every hallmark of having sprinted the three hundred metres between the two boys' houses, he couldn't suppress a grin. "What took you?"

The younger boy looked back at him with mock frustration. "Spare me the stand-up act, Matt. Your jokes have never been any good."

"All the more reason to keep practicing, then?"

"See what I mean? Anyway, where's your stuff? I've never seen it here before, I'd never…" Greg's sentences merged into one as his excitement once again got the better of the more refined functions of his brain.

"Slow _down_!" Matt reached out and pulled his friend over the threshold of his home, pushing the door closed behind him. "You'd never guess, but I don't generally leave it hanging around for anyone and everyone to see… what's someone going to think if they see _Intermediate Defensive Magic: Counter-curses and jinxes_ lying on the coffee table? Just 'cos you're excited doesn't mean you get to turn your thinking bits off…"

"Okay, okay, I get you, so where d'you keep it? How much stuff have you got? How do you get it here? Would any of it be any good for a first year?" Greg paused, seemingly out of questions.

Matthew was tempted to interrupt again midway through the stream, but decided to let his friend's rambling run its natural course before taking back control of the conversation. "In the attic. Yes, the attic you thought wasn't safe to go in. Now, you're going to get a drink and calm yourself down before you give yourself a hernia or something!"

Greg looked back at him, about to argue again. "But…"

"No buts! Trust me, mate, it's no good to be in this kinda state!" He put a kindly arm round his friend's shoulders and led him through into the kitchen before adding, as an afterthought, "I never thought I'd sound so much like my dad…"


End file.
